O Captain, My Captain
by MetaphoricallySane
Summary: 'BBC Sherlock' Johnlock rather hardcore slash. John misses the battlefield, but perhaps not in the way Sherlock expects...


**O Captain, My Captain**

Johnlock

(BBC Sherlock)

He had been watching him for days. The way he'd sit there, staring into the abyss, twitching ever so slightly. He was starting to wonder what was wrong, and with that came the worry. John was never like this. He would hold things – simple things, like a mug or the TV remote – like weapons, his finger pressing against an imaginary trigger. More than anything it left Sherlock uncomfortable, mainly because he couldn't figure him out. When spoken to John was calm and collected, seemingly not angry or depressed or anything really. He was his normal good doctor self.

Tapping away on his laptop keys, he didn't notice Sherlock watching him from the doorway. He licked his lip in thought, as he always did. Only this time it was different – no, he _bit _his lip, and shut his eyes, drew a few breaths, before looking back to the screen. Sherlock was not stupid.

It had been a while since John had been on a date with any kind of girlfriend to mention. He was probably lonely. Sherlock knew that the feelings went beyond just wanting company to wanting… but as he thought about it Sherlock found himself becoming rather awkward, and quickly slunk back to his experiments.

Lust wasn't all that John was feeling. It went far beyond that. It wasn't the typical in-out cravings he was used to – this was… it was something more. Something fuelled by crazy fetishes he had never even considered before. By all normal standards, the fantasies in his mind were… outrageous, wrong, even disturbing, but damn it all he was drawn to the notions all the same.

He looked round, hearing footsteps, and saw Sherlock stride in. John was no idiot; he knew Sherlock had been watching him for a while now. That only meant one thing: if Sherlock was still interested, that meant he didn't understand it. Yet. He shut his laptop, pushed his chair back, and stood.

"Sherlock?" he asked, casually. "Are you alright? Haven't had a case in a while."

"I'm keeping occupied," Sherlock answered, tipping some sort of chemical into God-knows-what. Then he looked over, studying John's stance in one glance: _uncomfortable yet forward, definite, almost reluctantly so, as if he has some sort of plan but isn't entirely sure of how it will play out. _"What about you?"

"Me? Fine, fine…"

John leant on the kitchen table, watching Sherlock's nimble hands working with pipettes and test tubes and tweezers. He had no idea what experiment he was working on, but more than that he didn't care. He found himself biting his lip again. There was no way that would have escaped Sherlock's keen eyes, watching his every flinch…

"Fuck it," John breathed, and with a strong step he intervened between Sherlock and his chemicals, pressing himself close to the man, who stepped back instinctively, but John grabbed his belt with one hand. "You and I both know how I've been. How you've been."

Sherlock tipped his head a little, not allowing himself to show any indication towards his racing pulse and growing erection. "What do you mean?" he said quietly, his voice low and husky beyond normal measures.

"Don't act stupid with me," John hissed, and pushed him with the strength of a soldier back to the wall. Sherlock cringed a little on impact, but found John's leg wrapped around his and quickly forgot the pain for something else. "It doesn't suit you."

Sherlock didn't permit it but found himself smiling slightly, cursing his humanity but allowing himself to understand it a little better as John pressed closer.

"Deduce me," he growled in Sherlock's ear, causing him to loosely shut his eyes until he felt John's teeth grazing his neck.

"John," he interrupted simply, but he couldn't hide the tremble in his voice. "You're constantly telling people you're not gay, and I think if anyone were to see this they'd stop believing you. Not that they believe you anyway…"

He drew a sharp breath as John bit down on his neck a little, and found himself leaning his head away, granting John permission to sink his teeth in more. He groaned softly, shut his eyes, flinched a little. And then it all made sense. John had planned this, planned all of it… Not towards some girl he hardly knew, but towards _him, _Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh yeah?" John kept talking, despite Sherlock's hands clutching his waist. "And why do they think that? Because I follow you everywhere. Because I watch you, everything you do. Because, fuck it, Sherlock, _we were made for each other._"

Sherlock trembled in agreement, hands roaming John's behind unconsciously, tugging him closer. "Please, John…" he whispered, barely audible. "I've never…"

"I know," John replied, tearing open the buttons of Sherlock's dark purple shirt. "And I want you to always remember this."

Sherlock yelped a little as John's fingers pinched around his left nipple. "Yes, Captain…" he breathed, and John twisted harder until he panted heavily, his hot breath across John's cheek.

John looked up at him, an almost violent lust in his eyes as he ordered, "Down on your knees, soldier. And that's a fucking order."

Trembling, Sherlock lowered himself, just before John seized his shirt collar and tugged him back up, forcing their mouths together and nipping at Sherlock's upper lip, pulling slightly until Sherlock opened his mouth to heave a breath and John pushed him back to the wall and drew the breath from him, twisting their tongues together and tangling and tying until Sherlock nearly passed out, when he let go and knotted his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, and pushed him down again.

Sunk to his knees and breathless, Sherlock found himself unable to think and just followed instinct, tugging at John's jeans, ripping away his belt, caressing his thighs, leaning his cheek to John's groin. John played with his hair roughly, and just as Sherlock's fingertips reached the rim of his boxers he yanked on his curls and Sherlock whined as John pulled him back to his feet.

He kicked off his trousers, pressing Sherlock's wrists above his head and glaring into his eyes. "You must do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"

"Yes… sir…" Sherlock panted, his eyes desperate and unable to meet John's for too long, lest he collapse from sheer arousal.

And John leaned closer and growled to him, "Turn around, hands against the wall." Sherlock froze for a second, pure innocence in his eyes, until John smiled, and ordered again, "Turn around."

Sherlock obeyed, and braced himself with jittering breaths as he placed his hands against the wall, feeling John's nails scratching around his hips before dragging down his trousers and boxers at once. The ex-soldier continued to torture him, raking down his legs until Sherlock swore quietly. He clasped his hands to Sherlock's waist, pulling him down a little to the right height before pressing closer, leaning over him, Sherlock not knowing what to expect until he felt John's throbbing member against his rear and he started to shake again.

"At ease," John told him. "And I suggest you do as I say, or it'll only hurt more."

"John, I…" Sherlock breathed. He shut his eyes tight as John pressed closer, and he found his hands fisting against the wall. "For fuck's sake, do it…"

John chuckled a little, gripped Sherlock tighter, and pulled him closer, and groaned a little as he pushed himself in, deeper, deeper, biting his lip till it bled as Sherlock did the same, crying out in both pain and pleasure, keeping himself braced as John jerked and pushed and rocked and back and forth…

He let out a soft moan, that rose in tone and amplitude as John pulled him closer and he gasped, panting heavily.

"J-John…" he stammered. "Oh, God, John… Oh, fuck…"

He moaned loudly, found himself rocking in rhythm with his pants and John's thrusts, heaving and dragging his nails across the wall.

"Fuck, yes… YES!"

In that instant John grasped Sherlock's throbbing member and massaged it heavily, tugging him back and forth with the motion until he could hardly breathe. Sherlock found himself gasping at nothing and exhaling far more than healthy, leaning his head to the wall, his eyes twitching, his body aching with heat, and then like an explosion the feeling erupted from him and he swore and buckled and yelled and clenched his jaw and leaned and begged, always pleading for more…

And then John let him go, and eased himself away, and he was breathing heavily and blushing and trembling a little too. Sherlock staggered at the release, and John grabbed him swiftly to keep him on his feet. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he soothed, and propped him upright, but soon he found himself giggling a little. Both of them began to laugh. John took Sherlock's hand, leading him over to the sofa where they both collapsed on top of one another.

"O Captain…" Sherlock murmured, touching his hand to John's cheek, grinning from pure bliss. "My Captain…"

John heaved a laugh, and put his moist hand over Sherlock's, grinning smugly. "That was just a drill."

And he swung his leg over Sherlock's hips and leaned into him again.

"Captain's orders," he whispered, and Sherlock gulped.


End file.
